


steal the breath from my lungs and we'll just call it love.

by lolitalynne



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Gentle Sex, M/M, Objectification, Religion Kink, Rough Sex, Sexual Humor, in which dwight fantasizes about fucking all the guys, what the hell is consistent writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolitalynne/pseuds/lolitalynne
Summary: There's a not-so-fine line between wanting the attention of the other men around the campfire and imagining just how they'd fuck him if they all had the chance.





	steal the breath from my lungs and we'll just call it love.

Dwight thinks a lot about the men that have joined him at the campfire through the years. Usually its with admiration and a certain fondness, but Dwight would be lying if he said he’d never felt the desire for something else. He wants validation and attention in a subconscious way and being the leader of this group gives him some of that. Its not entirely what he’s looking for, but it suffices. Having never really been someone that people got to know before (or even tried to for that matter), Dwight craves affection the same way a starving dog craves a piece of meat; euphemism fully intended. He knows its not really healthy to immediately fall in love (or was it lust?) with every man that so much as gives him a little bit of _something_ but its a luxury he’s never been able to afford before; flirtations just weren’t his particular style. Truthfully, he just isn’t good at it. He’s about as graceful as a newly born giraffe, all weak-kneed and awkward. He’s too full of anxiety and existential dread to be any kind of suave—some people liked that sort of thing and that was the only consolation he had. Regardless, to be fantasizing about your friends was something he hadn’t wanted to do but also something he couldn’t help. Each has their own strengths and weaknesses, each has something that makes them entirely unique, and while his attraction to all of them has never entirely worn off, he’s also learned how to reign those feelings in. He’s not used to having friends, that’s what he chalks all this up to. Anyone would be quick to say its love when you’ve spent a lifetime being shown nothing but rejection. Dwight had been an outcast his entire life and here he wasn’t; here he was important and it was nice to feel important for the first time in your life.  
  
There’s still a not-so-fine line between wanting them to notice him and imagining just how they’d fuck him if given the chance.  
  
Jake Park is the first to come to the campfire right after Claudette. He was quiet and reserved at the time and didn’t open up to the notion of being friends until he’d been killed more than once by the same killer that seemed to hunt him down specifically. He’d started with a shocking one-liner, some sarcastic, inappropriate joke about The Wraith and how he wondered just what was underneath those bandages as he, clearly, had a hard-on for Jake in particular. Dwight had gawked at him, flushed to his ears, and Jake had chuckled; with the ice broken, they’d started talking more often. As it turned out, Jake had been living in the woods for quite some time, having abandoned a lavish lifestyle in order to live more simply. He was one of the only ones that was really qualified to help them survive. These days Jake is more like a brother to him than anything but that hadn’t stopped Dwight from sitting in front of the fire, Jake’s knee lightly resting against his, and imagining Jake leaning over to whisper something filthy in his ear.

Dwight has already figured Jake, despite his silent nature, wouldn’t be able to shut up when it came to telling his partner just what he was going to do to them and how he was going to do it. He thinks about Jake’s breath, hot on his neck and rumbling against his ear, as he asks what Dwight would do if Jake wanted to fuck him right there. In front of everyone. He asks if Dwight would get on his knees, be a _good boy_ , and worship his cock as if this was his Eucharist and he was nothing but a sinner begging for repentance. Dwight would agree, his breath would stutter and he’d do as he was told. He’d part his lips and hollow his cheeks while Jake whispers words of encouragement and the promise that _I’ll fuck you deep and hard, just like you want_. When Jake cums, he’d drink it down like sacrificial wine and beg for more like the infamous Whore of Babylon. Jake would grin, all sharp and cunning, and reward him for his devotion. And, when he finally, _finally_ gets what he’s wanted, Jake would narrate the whole affair in hushed, hallowed tones. He’d tell Dwight how good he feels, how tight he is, and how his insides so perfectly fit the shape of his cock while he holds his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Jake would fuck earnestly, he thinks, would make sure that Dwight is able to handle everything he has to give—his long, deep thrusts that have Dwight moaning on each inward stroke. He wouldn’t manhandle Dwight quite the same way he imagines David would, but he would make sure that Dwight remains pliant underneath him; maybe he’d pin his hands so that he can’t touch himself. Not until he asks for permission, or rather begs for it, and then Jake would drop his hand between them and work Dwight through a trembling release while he spills Jake’s name from his lips like ardent prayers. Jake’s thrusts would slow and grow as erratic as his gentle breathing and when he cums it’d be as deep as he could get, hands sliding from hips to the curve of his lower back to keep Dwight in place. Almost breathlessly, teeth clamping down on Dwight’s neck, he’d ride through his own aftershocks with just the barest tremble in his arms. Jake wouldn’t be one for deep aftercare or outward displays of affection, but he’d press kisses to Dwight’s jaw and share his breathing space for long after they’re done.  
  
No one is luckier than Ace Visconti, the man that gambles with fate every day. He’s been playing with fire from the very start but there was such a charm to him that Dwight didn’t really know how to properly handle. Ace is flirty, he never stops, and Dwight’s sure he does it just to get a rise out of people but he’s the only one that really seems to live up to his expectations. He’s never been hit on in his life and it throws him through a loop every time Ace offers him a disarming smile and a salacious wink. He does it to everyone, Dwight knows that, but he appreciates the gesture and its boosted his confidence on more than one occasion. Ace likes to make bets that he really can’t cash, not here at least, unless they’re betting high-grade toolboxes and medkits. He wins ninety-nine percent of the time and Dwight is always in awe of just how _much_ luck he seems to have. Whether Ace cheats or not, well, that’s up for debate. Dwight doesn’t really envision Ace as being monogamous in reality, but in his fantasies? That’s another story entirely.

He thinks that Ace would likely just go for it one day, would stop beating around the bush and illustrate his attraction in a way that would leave Dwight flustered but not unwilling. Ace would love it, the way his face turns red with embarrassment as he flounders. Ace would surely be into teasing, into edging Dwight for so long that he’s almost sobbing for it. He imagines the foreplay would be long and almost torturous; Ace’s fingers—so skilled from card tricks and picking pockets—opening him up so he’s nice and ready for his cock when that time eventually comes. It would feel like days, weeks, _years_ as Ace crooks his fingers and grazes his prostate in a manner that’s almost overwhelming but just not anywhere near hard enough to satisfy him. He would wear that grin and swallow Dwight’s moans, licking the taste of his own cum from the other’s mouth after the blowjob he’d asked for prior. He’d tell Dwight to keep his hands to himself or wrapped around his shoulders, anywhere but touching his dripping cock because that was his job and _you trust me, sì?_ Of course Dwight would trust him, Ace has never lead him astray before, but he’d be reduced to tears before Ace finishes and finally slides into him with an even, hard thrust. Dwight would cum almost immediately; dry, overstimulated and hypersensitive and Ace would chuckle some words of praise in either Italian or Spanish—Dwight would have no idea, he didn’t know either language—and fuck him properly, just the way Dwight wanted in the first place. Hands spreading Dwight’s legs wider, gripping his inner thighs, he’d work Dwight until he was crying again and begging to be touched. Ace would only comply when he was close enough himself, reaching down to barely grip Dwight’s cock, thumb under the head and rubbing in just the right way to make Dwight arch and choke on broken moans. Dwight would shudder around him, clamping down with thick tears in his eyes, cum painting his own stomach and the hollows of his hips. And when Ace cums it’d be with some strangled sounding curse under his breath, hands tightening their grip on already hickey covered thighs. Grinding his hips into Dwight he’d eventually still and sit back when he’s sure he’s completely spent. He’d brush back his hair, slick with sweat, and stare down at Dwight with half-lidded eyes. Ace would smile at him lazily and use his thumbs to brush the tears from his face, purring some kind of words of affection, and Dwight would melt.  
  
Bill Overbeck is a man that has, undoubtedly, seen it all. He’s the best suited for this sort of situation, but his experience deals in zombie apocalypses. Its not entirely the same as being chased by supernatural killers, but at least he has survival skills and knows how a predator hunts its prey. He’s adept and worldly and that’s what Dwight likes about him. In many ways he’s been like a father to many of them, especially when he first showed up, and he’s taught them a lot in the time he’s been with them. He usually says what’s on his mind while a cigarette lay perched between his lips, smoke drifting into the air. He tells many stories, all the time, of past adventures and his companions and the war against the undead. If he were anyone else Dwight doesn’t think he’d believe that zombies were real. Truthfully, if they weren’t all in this alternate dimension, or whatever it was, Dwight wouldn’t have believed anything anyone said. Different lifestyles yielded different stories and who was he to judge Bill’s? Dwight’s never pictured himself into older men, but his fierce attraction to Ace has rendered that null and void by now.

Bill is older than Ace but still likely young enough to have a good time; he doesn’t seem interested in intimacy, but Dwight doesn’t think he’d turn it down. He’s just tired, he says, and has seen too much shit going on to be bothered. Dwight bets that if he were persistent and more bold Bill would give in. He’d likely be reluctant to actually fuck him but it wouldn’t stop him from pinning Dwight face first to a tree and unbuckling his belt. Maybe there would be no real interest in it on his end, but he’d like to see Dwight trembling and panting for it—he wouldn’t want to compare him to the girls of his youth, but he’d be unable to help it. Bill wouldn’t say much while sliding one leg between Dwight’s, kicking them apart enough to push his pants down his hips and hold him there, immobile. He’d force Dwight to keep his hands on the tree, lest he stop. Cigarette smoke would permeate the air around them, cling to Dwight’s skin and soak into his clothes; that would have bothered him if it were anyone else. He’d think of it as a subconscious way to mark him. His hand, rough from all the years he’d spent holding guns, would wrap around his already slick cock and it’d almost feel like release. Dwight would breathe in a sharp gasp, hips stuttering while Bill set the pace; slow, methodical, as though he were polishing a rifle. His forehead would hit the tree, fingers chipping at the bark while he rolls his hips in an attempt to get more of that friction. He doesn’t picture Bill as an incredibly patient person as he’s spent too long running from zombies and making quick decisions, but maybe this would be the one thing he’d take his time with and savor like he does his cigarettes. Dwight wouldn’t risk watching the way Bill twists his hand just right, not unless he wanted to cum the instant he looked down, so he shuts his eyes and bites his lip. Breathing harsh, he’d grind back into Bill and silently beg for more; and he’d get it because he knows Bill has a soft spot and he’d be unable to deny the sweet sounds he’d wring from Dwight’s throat. _Go ahead, kid_ ; he imagines Bill would say and he’d almost fold in on himself, legs trembling as he coats Bill’s hand and hears the ghost of a gruff chuckle behind him. Bill would likely be back to business after that, flick the ashes from his cigarette, and hold Dwight in place until his world stops spinning.  
  
When David King showed up it was like a category five hurricane had struck and left them all buffeted by the winds it brought. He was, and still is, a force to be reckoned with—a natural disaster all his own and Dwight was taken with him almost immediately. David was the kind of guy he’d be scared of normally, and he wouldn’t lie and say that he wasn’t at first. He was like all those bullies that pushed Dwight into lockers and knocked books out of his hands when he was in high school. People like him were the reason he’d learned how to be invisible for a vast majority of his life. David had seen him right away, had latched onto him as some kind of easy target initially, but consistently backed down because there were too many people against him. Dwight has since proven himself capable enough to the point where David eventually conceded and had taken to patting him on the back any time there was a job well done rather than subtly threatening him. The man’s accent is sharp and strong, not entirely refined, but Dwight likes the way his name sounds when it rolls off his tongue. He’s called him 'hen' more than once and he has no idea what that means, but it sounds so sweet and makes Dwight’s pulse thrum wildly. Under it all, David has shown them that there’s more than meets the eye with him and that he has the propensity to be caring and gentle. Suffice it to say, Dwight had definitely been shocked the first time David offered him his woolen jacket and a shoulder to fall asleep on.

He imagines that David fucks like he fights—hard and fast and with everything he has. He wouldn’t make it hurt but he’d make sure Dwight felt every inch of him as he grinds deep, one hand pressed against his stomach, the other tipping his chin up so he can properly hear the drawn out moans he wrings from Dwight’s chest. He imagines that David would be a little like Jake in that he’d like to talk as he fucked Dwight like a cat in heat; all sharp angles and mewling cries. He’d leave him gasping for breath, scrambling for purchase in the grass, thrusts as relentless as his praise. God, what praise would do to Dwight—leave him shuddering and whining and David would just _know_. He’d do everything he could to do to reduce Dwight to a sobbing mess, would find all those spots that make him tremble and beg and gag for it, and hit every one with such an acute precision. He wouldn’t falter for even one second, fingers brushing Dwight’s throat gently, feeling the sounds he makes vibrating against his skin. They’d move into his hair just in case he wanted to tug and he’d know Dwight would love that too; a forced arch to his back as he drew himself up straighter to avoid a painful crane in his neck while enjoying the slight sting of it regardless. Dwight would be smart enough to take off his glasses beforehand because David is unpredictable and there was no telling just how he’d want Dwight that day. That’d be part of the fun though, wouldn’t it? He likes David’s erratic nature but is certain that he’d be so _good_ at handling him, at pinning him down, leaving him absolutely no room to do anything but _take it_. Which Dwight would because, well, he’d be stupid to let that opportunity pass him by. And, like with everything else, he’d be unrelenting and almost brutal in the way he snaps his hips and reaches down to match the pace with his hand. David would surely show him no mercy as he orders him to cum— _That’s it love, let me see you cum for me_ —and Dwight would obey with a hitching breath and a keening cry. He has no doubt that David would be a man that insists on going multiple rounds—perhaps he wouldn’t even cum the first, second, or third—and, by the end, Dwight would be so tired and well-fucked that he’d be aching for it for days. Dwight would be barely conscious enough to feel David’s soothing touches, or hear the way he whispers post-coital praises, but he knows they’d be there because David isn’t always as rough as he seems.  
  
Sleep is rare to come by most days and you never knew when you’re going to be called to a trial. Quentin Smith is just a boy that’s seen too much and has dark circles under his eyes that stand out in stark contrast against his pale skin. Dwight can remember being a teenager, too tired and stressed from school to even be slightly coherent. He, however, didn’t have Freddy Krueger to contend with and that makes all the difference. Quentin is haunted by the new killer that appears alongside him—sometimes Dwight is as well, but he stalks Quentin most often. Dwight doesn’t know how that feels in particular, but he can empathize; being stalked by bullies is similar. However, Freddy hounds him in a disgusting way and Dwight wants to protect this boy even though he doesn’t know how. How do you erase someone’s dreams? With Quentin it would probably happen so impulsively it leaves them both reeling. He isn’t sure who would start the initial train wreck, but that’s what it would be like. It’d be something they shouldn’t start but can’t help but roll with once they get there. He can’t imagine Quentin having much experience outside of that girl, Nancy, that he sometimes talks about but what he lacks in experience he’d probably make up for in eagerness. He seems to be someone that would like to please, that would look for affirmation in a job well done, but ultimately a boy that would positively _thrive_ on hearing just how much his partner was enjoying it. And Dwight, oh God, would Dwight deliver.

Hesitant touches on both sides would give way to confidence on Quentin’s, and an overwhelming desire to bring out all the ways he can make Dwight squirm. He imagines Quentin to be something like Ace: in love with the foreplay and the build up of it all. But, unlike Ace, he just wouldn’t realize when enough was enough he’d be so drunk on hearing Dwight moan for him that he’d probably lose sight of the actual goal. Dwight wouldn’t want to leave him hanging, would want to drop to his knees and give Quentin the best blowjob of his life—bold of Dwight to assume that he’s really that good when he’s never actually had any practice, but this is his fantasy and he’s as good as he wants to be—but Quentin would protest, say that he wants to be inside him _immediately_. Shyness forgotten and flushed with need, Quentin would help Dwight open himself up, sliding a finger alongside two of Dwight’s own to stretch him. Embarrassment aside, Dwight would reach up and pull Quentin down into a kiss as he guides the other’s cock and feels Quentin inch forward himself. He’d expect Quentin to fully go for it, but he moves unexpectedly careful and gentle, easing in with almost agonizing slowness. When he bottoms out he’d stay there, hovering over Dwight, lips parted in a strained pant. He’d start out with easy, calculated thrusts that just ignite a fire inside them both and when Quentin finds his excitement in watching Dwight moan, he would go at it with all he had. Eyes that stared straight down at him, intent and heavy-lidded as always, would have Dwight flushing down to his collarbone, an arm thrown over his own eyes so he didn’t have to feel so laid bare. But Quentin would stop, pull his arm away gently, slot their fingers together and tell Dwight that _I want to watch you enjoy it_. And it would sound like the sexiest thing he’s ever heard in his life and, really, how could he deny Quentin that? He knows being watched would be his breaking point, hand gripping his own cock, momentarily shocked when Quentin’s covers his and assists. Dwight would come first, a long drawn-out sound, back arching and hips twitching up into their combined hands. Quentin likely wouldn’t be too far behind, not after watching Dwight shudder and bite his lip. He’d curl over Dwight almost protectively, moan wet and hot into his neck, and tremble. This time it would be Dwight that litters the other’s mouth in kisses, cups his face in his hands, and purrs out how _good_ he was. Quentin would be pleased and sated enough to finally fall asleep and Dwight would be left hoping that his dreams were easy this time.  
  
When a detective shows up at the campfire it sends a few other members into a minor panic. As if David Tapp would be able to do anything about their criminal ways now. Ace, in particular, is a little wary of his presence but he seems to forge a relationship with him that usually ends in Tapp’s exasperated sighs. Tapp is calm and reserved and, at first, he’s so closed off its hard to even talk to him. He is a man that has experience with killers and, specifically, the newest killer that follows him here. No one likes The Pig and her reverse bear traps; things that can, and will, split your skull in two if you don’t find the proper key to remove them. They’ve all been on the bad end of one of those traps at some point in time. Tapp has more experience with them than he’d like to admit but Dwight can see the trepidation in his eyes when he even so much as sees Amanda Young across the wrecker’s yard. Tapp opens up slowly and when he does he tells tales of some of the things he’s seen and the criminals he’s helped take down. He waters the stories down, figures everyone here has seen enough trauma to last them a lifetime. He makes everything sound heroic in his own way. Unlike what his calm exterior portrays, Dwight imagines he’d be a man that would release tension and anxiety through a good fuck. Not that Dwight would be sure he was a good fuck, but Tapp would be a mix of David and Ace—terrifying in that Dwight thinks he’d never get enough of it were the fantasy to come true.

He wouldn’t be all about the teasing, he’d likely get through the foreplay as fast as he could to get to the main course; Dwight being the perfect feast when all you can picture is a pig’s mask behind your eyes. He’d replace those traumas with the gentle feel of soft, pale skin and the sweet sounds of Dwight falling apart under his fingers. He wouldn’t handle Dwight like he was glass but he’d give Dwight what he thinks he needs every time. He has his cuffs on him, Dwight knows that for fact, and he’d use them from time to time to try and regain some kind of unconscious sense of the control he feels he's lost. And of course Dwight would let him because there’s nothing he loves more than being at someone else’s mercy where pleasure is concerned. As much as he’d want to replace his nightmares with this gentility, Tapp wouldn’t be able to avoid inflicting a bit of pain. Maybe to hear Dwight whimper and feel him writhe, or to remind himself that he was still—in some fashion— _alive_. But Dwight would take the brutal pace he sets, the slight chafing of metal cuffs, and the roughness of bark from the campfire’s log as it scrapes his back through his shirt. In the same token, he'd want to dig his nails into the detective’s back, leave angry red marks in their wake, because he knows Tapp would groan and his hips would stutter as he does his best to bend Dwight in half and hit the deepest parts inside him—as though he’s trying to carve out a permanent space within him in which to make a home. He’d make Dwight cum more than once before he’s finally ready himself. Brows would furrow, the groan he lets out more like a snarl than anything else, and he wouldn’t stop the sharp, shallow thrusts until he’s entirely spent. Breath heavy, Tapp wouldn’t speak, not for a long moment while they both recover. He’d notice he was still holding Dwight too tightly and he’d losen his grip, arms sliding under Dwight’s shoulders to pull him into his lap where he could stretch and relax and relish in the slight sting of pain through his body. _Are you alright?_ is the only thing Tapp would ask since they started and Dwight would be unable to do anything but laugh breathlessly.  
  
As far as intelligence goes, Adam Francis is a cut above the rest of them. They’re all smart in their own ways, but Adam was a teacher that spent time instructing in Southern Japan. He is kind and soft-spoken; Dwight is awed by his brain every day. He knows things that Dwight was never taught in school, but Dwight chalks that up to the American education system. Adam is every bit a scholar and Dwight thinks its a real shame that he wound up here; though, from what Dwight hears it was in a moment of sudden heroism. The last thing Adam remembers is trying to shield a girl from a crumpling train door. Admirable, Dwight thinks—far better than anything Dwight had done with his miserable little life. He feels like Adam wouldn’t think that way. He often sees the good in people that they can’t see themselves, much like Claudette. He reminds Dwight of Claudette, but Adam is far less outspoken than Claudette can be; she’d never hesitate to call you on your bullshit and Dwight likes that. Adam, however, bites his tongue and seems so prim. That being said, Dwight imagines that he’d try and respect the proper order of things when it came to sex. He’d be the gentlest out of them all, intent on working slowly and diligently. It’s likely that he’d want to date, get to know Dwight beforehand, but they don’t really have anywhere romantic to go so they would have to resort to disappearing into the woods to sit out under the stars and talk. Adam would be the kind of guy where "one thing lead to another" and he’d wind up expressing his feelings in actions rather than words.

It would probably be the first time Dwight felt entirely in control; Adam is the guy he fantasizes about fucking when he wants tender words and idolatry. He’d treat Dwight like a museum display, some artifact from ancient history that needed to be protected and cherished. He’s pretty sure Adam would be rendered breathless by the softness of his body and the sweetness of his voice as he works Dwight up to a fevered crescendo. Dwight would insist on leading the show this time around, straddling Adam’s lap as the scholar looks up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. When Dwight wants to feel nothing but loved, he thinks about Adam. Of course, he could be wrong, but this wasn’t reality and he doesn’t care. He’d rock himself down on Adam’s cock slow and even, relish in the way Adam lightly grips at his hips, sometimes runs his hands up Dwight’s sides and that would send shivers down his spine. Perched as he would be, Dwight could angle himself to just the right degree so he can hit the perfect spot that made him see stars the more he does it. Their sounds would be soft until Dwight feels himself edging closer and that’s when Adam would take back a bit of control. He’d grind his own hips up into Dwight’s, fucking him a little harder, but with no less reverence than before. Dwight would arch his back and chew on his lower lip, glasses having already been discarded the second they started; he can’t see that well without them but it would at least cut back his embarrassment by not allowing him to see the look of adoration Adam grants him. Adam wouldn’t say much but when it comes to that final push, he’d breathe out Dwight’s name as though it were the key to his deliverance— _Oh God, Dwight_ —full of warmth and terrible need. And Dwight knows that’d be his undoing and he wouldn’t be able to avoid taking his cock in his hand and finishing himself off, color bursting beneath his eyes as his moan comes out broken and staggering. Adam would be sweet long after he’s done, hands soothing over Dwight’s tired thighs, sitting up to hold his waist and covet him as though he were the last remnants of some civilization lost to time.  
  
Of all the people he expected to see at the campfire, Jeff Johansen was not one of them. He wasn’t fundamentally any different from the others in that he was just a man, unassuming in his own right. However, his appearance is deceiving on many levels. Beard, tattoos, a belly slightly soft from drinking too many beers. Jeff looks every part the rough and tough biker stereotype. When Dwight comes to find out that he’s nothing of the sort, he’s stunned. No, this man is gentle and kind, shy and awkward like himself. Unlike himself, however, he’s put on the facade of an intimidating man—tall, covered in tattoos, long hair, beard. By all means, Dwight wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him if he met him on the street. He’s since learned that Jeff cares deeply for people and he’d rather be painting than anything else. That’s why, in Dwight’s little world, Jeff would take care with him in the way he’d paint a grand masterpiece destined for a gallery. He’d spread warmth along the canvas of Dwight’s skin, paint him red and purple with his mouth and leave abstract splotches blooming in his wake. To him, Dwight would be a sculpture waiting to be molded by his hands, and he’d do just that, fingers roaming along the planes of his chest, his sides, and the sharp angles of his hips. Jeff also likes music so maybe he’d make Dwight sing instead, crisp notes from his throat like a symphony as Jeff showers him in feather-light touches. It’d be a bit of both, perhaps.

He’d drag Dwight against him in a small fit of desperation while Dwight sits in his lap, and he’d finger him with the same care as how he’d move them along the frets of his guitar—he’s played Kate’s once, so Dwight knows he’s good at it. But like a fine piece of artwork he’d take care to only mark where he needs to, painting a picture along Dwight’s skin before allowing Dwight the control to sink down on his cock himself. That’s where Jeff would differ from most; like Adam, he’d let Dwight lead but unlike Adam, there would come a point where he could no longer hold onto his restraint. And Dwight would loosely loop his arms around Jeff’s shoulders, bracket his hips with his thighs, and fuck himself down at his own pace. Eventually he’d be guided by the hands on his hips, forced to go faster while Jeff groans against his collarbone rough and unabashed. _Fuck_ —he’s sure he’d hear Jeff hiss (he rarely hears Jeff curse, but he thinks it’d be his undoing), breath punched out of him as he doesn’t bother to control the way he’s thrusting into Dwight and pulling him down into his lap— _you’re beautiful_. He’d pull Dwight closer to him, wouldn’t even need to touch his cock for Dwight to be coming apart at the seams; Jeff’s shirt would provide the perfect momentary friction to make him seize and wrack his body in waves. He’d paint Jeff’s shirt with his cum and sing his praise through panted breaths. But Jeff would give it back better, his beard tickling at Dwight’s throat as he leaves a trail of heated kisses along his flushed skin, and he’d revel in the aftercare and the softness of intimacy he could provide. Like an old, beloved record he’d whisper sweet nothings, hands roaming Dwight’s back as though he were trying to recreate some great piece of artwork directly on his skin.  
  
Ashley J. Williams is a bit of a disaster in his own right. Not in the way that David was initially a mess, but in a way entirely unique to him. He’s sarcastic, he’s loud, and he’s missing his right hand. He's never talked about how he lost it, only that he’d gotten a really "groovy" prosthetic a friend made for him. Dwight was intrigued by him from the moment he showed up and he has a tendency to slap Dwight on the back at the campfire and ask him how he’s doing. He’s not really sure, but it always seems like he’s concerned; maybe he’d seen that Dwight was sometimes only holding on by a thread. Maybe that is his way of trying to distract him. Whatever it was, Dwight imagines that Ash might take a deeper liking to him one day. He thinks that Ash might be a little bit awkward about this, not in the same way Dwight is, but he looks like a guy that wouldn’t really know how to broach the subject. He is, however, bold and outspoken, if not a bit crass. He can’t imagine Ash just outright asking if Dwight wants to fuck, but the idea itself elicits some amount of amusement and so that’s the scenario Dwight goes with. He can’t decide if Ash would be the type to kiss him breathless, which is fine because he imagines some of the others might be, but it would be some small reward to silence Ash’s wise remarks with his lips; and to receive the other’s tongue in his own mouth for the effort. He knows that Ash would make comments, not mean but teasing, maybe a bit too rough sometimes, but he’d soothe over the sarcastic comment with his mouth—a show of good faith that he didn’t mean it.

Dwight’s fairly certain Ash has never had a dick anywhere near his mouth but, for the hundredth time, he tells himself this is a fantasy and he can think whatever he wants to of his friends (though not without realizing just how absolutely fucking weird it was). And Ash would hold his hips to the ground as he perches Dwight’s cock on his tongue and takes him into his mouth. Its another way to get Ash to be quiet, if only for a few moments—not that Dwight doesn’t find some of the things he says funny, but Ash is a man that has a comment for everything. He doesn’t expect Ash would be satisfied with that for long, and Dwight’s inevitable squirming would make him chuckle and rear back. He’d be resourceful enough to have something stashed away to ease his way and he’d avoid using his prosthetic until later. Dwight imagines there’d be some kind of urgency and he can’t picture Ash prepping him nearly as long as anyone else—just enough to get them by and to make Dwight pant underneath him. Sitting back on his legs, he’d grab Dwight’s hips and pull his lower half atop his thighs; he’d work Dwight like he weighed absolutely nothing while he evenly pushed into the other’s long awaited warmth. There would be some slowness to start, a gentle rock of hips before Ash grounds himself, spreads his own legs, and grinds Dwight hard against him. Dwight would grip at his knees, fingers scrambling to gather the fabric that had only been hiked down far enough to free Ash’s cock. Clothes laid out underneath him, Ash would search out the perfect angle, the perfect pace, that would have Dwight falling into a haze of comfortable monotony. He’d do this up until a certain point and when Dwight least expects it he’d sit up on his knees so he could fuck him harder, faster, until the younger man is shaking with the need to cum. _Looking ready to burst there, kiddo. Should I get Ashy Slashy to help you out?_ Dwight wants to say the Ash of his fantasies wouldn’t have any smart remarks but, truthfully, he wouldn’t really be Ash if he didn’t. And he’d hiss out a _don’t you fucking dare_ before matching the quick pace of Ash’s thrusts with a hand around his aching cock. He’d just barely make out Ash’s eyes as they focus both on what he’s doing and what Dwight’s doing before they flicker to his face, offering a strangely roguish grin. That would be Dwight’s undoing and he’d claw at the ground with one hand, bunching up someone’s shirt in a white-knuckle grip, and cum all over his own hand. Ash would have a strange habit of rarely releasing inside him and, instead, pull out to mix his cum with Dwight’s on the younger man’s stomach—Dwight thinks he’d get a strange pleasure out of seeing him stained like a secret kind of mark. And Dwight would still be trembling long after Ash has composed himself, a terribly patterned shirt thrown over his shoulders while a warm hand brushes through his hair—Ash wouldn’t be one for romantics, he thinks, but he’d show affection in his own way.  
  
There’s no doubting that Dwight shouldn’t be considering these things and he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about them while jerking off in some distant part of the woods. He’s willing to bear the guilt of these fantasies for just the briefest moment of relief when everything else gets too overwhelming and chaotic to handle. But he’s got a different flavor for every day of the week plus two extra and he can’t deny that, some days, and in some perverted sense, this is all that keeps him going.

**Author's Note:**

> hi what up i'm lolita and i'm sorry this is my first fic posted here and its just dwight imagining himself getting railed by all the male survivors. also the title is way more deep than anything in this fic is lmfao


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